“She was high. We can fix the quote.”
“You can’t fix eight months, Pat. They’re saying it started in March.”
“Where is she?” Lizanne asked, her voice cracking.
“I don’t know. No one is talking.”
“We need a plan,” Pat began, pacing the length of the island, her heels clicking like a metronome. “We can say you were already separated. We can say the wedding was off weeks ago. If we control the narrative, we save the Prime Esque deal.”
“The wedding isn’t off,” Lizanne snapped, the words tumbling out in a frantic rush. “I have a dress at the shop. There’s a cake tasting on Monday. Rose found a venue and there’s a canopy! A canopy!” She clung to the word as if the lace and wood of a structure could hold her life together.
The intercom buzzed again. “Miss Connors,” Mel said. “Miss Holmes is at the gate.”
The five minutes it took for the car to wind up the driveway felt like an hour. Lizanne stood up, smoothing her robe and splashing cold water on her face until she looked like a person again.
When the elevator doors finally opened, Trina walked in wearing the same black dress from the video. One strap was twisted. She was carrying her heels in one hand, smelling of tobacco and cheap tequila.
“Pat,” Trina rasped. “Leave us.”
Lizanne gave a curt nod, and Pat retreated to the terrace.
“Is it true?” Lizanne asked. She didn’t move. She couldn’t.
Trina set her shoes on the counter and slumped onto a stool. “Yes.”
“Marcus Lance.”
“Yes.”
“Since March?”
Trina looked toward the window, refusing to meet Lizanne’s eyes. “A little less.”
“Eight months,” Lizanne’s voice was hollow.
“It was only supposed to be an escape,” Trina said, picking at a loose thread on her hem.
“An escape from what?”
“Fromthis,” Trina gestured vaguely at the high-tech kitchen, the security cameras, the “Wedding of the Year.” “From being a co-star instead of a person.”
“I did this for us,” Lizanne said.
“No. You did it for you.” Trina finally looked at her, her eyes bloodshot and hard. “I’m falling in love with him, Liz. He doesn’t want a reality show. He just wants me.”
“And the wedding?”
“There is no wedding. I don’t want to get married. Not to you. Not to anyone. All this circus—the guest lists, the cameras in our bedroom—it killed it for me.”
“We dreamed of this,” Lizanne said, her voice small. “We sat on this floor and planned it.”
“No,” Trina’s voice went flat. “You dreamed. I listened. I said yes because I didn’t want to fight you. But the fact that you didn’t even notice I was miserable for eight months? That’s the answer, Liz. We’re done.”
Trina stood up, grabbing her shoes. She walked to the elevator, the doors sliding shut with a soft, final hiss.
Lizanne stood in the center of the kitchen. She heard the distant roar of an engine, then nothing but the hum of the refrigerator. Pat came back in from the terrace, her face softened by pity. She didn’t ask questions; she just put her arms around Lizanne and held her while the first jagged sob finally broke through.
Outside, the morning fog was lifting, revealing the city below. But at the gate, the cameras were still pointed upward, waiting for the next act.
